


Prompt No.10 - Unconscious

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Whumptober 2019 [10]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anxiety, CPR, Drowning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Temporary Character Death, Whumptober 2019, and a sidelined, but not really cpr because it was more of a happy accident, washingdad and hamilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 21:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21143567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After disobeying direct orders, Alexander puts his life in danger. George and John find Alexander face-down in the water, unbreathing, unmoving.For Whumptober 2019Day No.10 - Unconscious





	Prompt No.10 - Unconscious

**Author's Note:**

> She ain't mine. No sir. All Lin's. Should I start trying to rap these things? Make life a little more interesting. Ha. As if you read these. If you do, I am SHOCKED.

They had known Halbart was a spy.

Or, Alexander had  _ found out _ Halbart was a spy. He had spent nearly a week on his hunch, unceremoniously stalking the man around the camp, tracking his every movement, following his every letter. George had never seen an aide as dedicated as Hamilton, no matter the task, and the young man was relentless; hardly sleeping, barely eating, catching the attention of both John Laurens and Aaron Burr as he flew between the tents from one job to another. When he wasn’t following Halbart, he was writing on behalf of Washington’s army, sending out orders and tracking supplies and information for future movements, always the ever-dutiful aide. Just as George planned to tell Alexander to give in and focus on real susceptibilities that lie ahead, Hamilton burst through his tent, letter in hand, his eyes feverish with excitement and pride, or perhaps it was a true fever, as he seemed dazed even as George ripped open the letter and read through its traitorous contents.

Yes, Hamilton was right. The young man was often correct, but George was not about tell him and further inflate his ego. It bloomed a warm pride in Washington’s chest, knowing his aide, the young man that acted more like a son than a soldier, was incredibly dutiful, and intelligent, and quick: everything George had dreamed of in a son of his own lineage.

“The British plan to infiltrate from the south,” George announced. From the side of the tent, Laurens stiffened, listening intently. Burr inhaled deeply. “Tonight. At dusk.”

“Dusk?” John sat straighter. Alexander stood tightly, swaying on his feet, still breathing heavily from when he had rushed into George’s tent. George was half tempted to order the man to sit down before he humiliated himself by collapsing. John continued, “That's mere hours away. What is the plan, sir?”

“The plan,” George folded the letter and tossed it to his desk. “Is to stop mister Halbart. Before he leaves tonight, we will intercept him.”

Aaron asked, hesitantly, “Sir, if I may?” When George faced Aaron, the man continued stiffly, “Pardon my intrusion, but what good will that do? Is that not a gamble?”

“I would like to hope the British plan to hold off their attack until their man has returned, lest chaos erupt within their ranks. Letting a man die will raise unease within their soldiers, hence, it would do them well to await mister Halbart nearby.” George informed them slowly. “It  _ is  _ a gamble, mister Burr, but I assume it is the best course of action we have as of now. We do not have time to rethink our plan.”

Alexander gripped the back of a nearby chair as he rushed closer to George. “Send me, your excellency. I will do what must be done.”

“Absolutely not.” George turned away from Hamilton.

Behind him, Alexander snapped, “I am  _ fully  _ capable!”

“I will send two soldiers instead.” George raised a sharp eyebrow at Alexander. “You are a vital part of my team, and it will be safer--”

“ _ Safer? _ ” Alexander sputtered. He surged forward, fists tight at his sides. “You trust two foot soldiers to ensure the  _ whole _ of our safety?” His voice cracked with rage. “Do you not trust me? Your  _ excellency, _ it would be  _ foolish _ \-- _ ! _ ”

“No.” George ground out. “And that is my final decision. Mister Burr,” Aaron jumped to his feet, steady hand saluting in attention. “Alert the men on south guard that they are to follow Halbart and apprehend him once he takes his leave of our camp. There are no exceptions.” Out of George’s periphery, Alexander had shrank back, ears red. George felt his gut twist with guilt, but he forced himself to pay little mind and continued, “They are to relocate mister Halbart to the river two miles west of our current location and wait for us to retrieve the spy.”

George locked eyes with John’s furious glare. “Mister Laurens, please find two new men to overtake the southern guard. Do be diligent; I do not wish for children to take up such a task what with the threat we face.” He nodded to both Burr and Laurens. “You are dismissed.”

Aaron shuffled out of the tent without thought, while John lingered momentarily, giving his fellow aide a solemn look before clapping Alexander on the shoulder as he exited. Alexander stared down, kicking a rock around underneath the toe of his boot. “Sir,” He rasped, “I do not understand--”

“Are you ill?” George stepped forward. He relaxed his shoulders, feeling no need to uphold such constraints in front of his other men. When Alexander turned away with a scoff, George dipped his head to try and catch Alexander’s eyes. “Hamilton, are you--?”

“I’m tired.” Alexander said quickly, chin snapping up as he met George’s curious gaze. A glassy heat reflected deep in his dark eyes. “I am merely tired, your excellency.”

George nodded. “Are you with fever?”

“If I am, it is due to... _ overwork _ , not illness.” Alexander bit out, as if it were hard to say. He quickly remedied. “I am still fit to serve by your side, sir.”

“And of that I have no doubt.” George took a step back. Alexander deflated. George reached for his water cup before continuing quietly, “But you  _ are _ with fever, no?”

Alexander’s jaw worked, teeth grinding, before he mumbled, “Yes.”

“I see.” George’s fingers fiddled on the side of his drink, thumb catching in a chipped divot near the rim. He had one of two options to choose from: either send Alexander to work, or send him to bed. It would wound the man’s pride to order the latter be done, but Hamilton would thank him in the morning once well rested, no doubt. However, George also knew his aide. He knew he would not lie down even if he were  _ dead _ , and would struggle every second of George’s command. He knew his dearest aide would not take kindly to being put to rest, but would not rest even if his body demanded it, as tension sizzled in the air over the camp. If Washington’s men couldn’t apprehend Halbart, they would  _ all _ die. Nonetheless, George sighed, and said, “Retire for the evening, colonel.”

“Sir--”

He didn’t even get the word out before George cut him off, “That is an order. We have this under control. Trust that I will fetch you should you be needed. So, retire to your own tent for the evening, and if you are spotted, you will be strapped to a stretcher in the medical tent.”

“ _ Sir! _ Is that not a bit excessive?” Alexander squawked.

George hummed into his water. “Indeed, it is.” He took a swig. “Alas, I trust you  _ follow my order _ , and such excess will not be required.”

“Such excess would not be required,  _ sir _ , if you simply  _ trusted me! _ ” Alexander’s voice rose to an unabashed shout. No doubt the rest of the camp could hear what George had wanted to be private conversation.

Slowly, George said, “Hamilton--”

“ _ Sir! _ Do you not  _ trust _ me?” Pain glittered in Alexander’s eyes.

George shook his head. “I do trust you.”

“Then why the extra steps to hold me back? Why not allow me to do what needs to be done? Why send me away when there is so much I can do? I cannot foresee any possible reason save for the fact that you do not  _ trust me _ , and wish me furthest from your company!” Alexander’s face turned bright with anger. He breathed through clenched teeth, breathing fast.

And how George wanted to correct him, to tell him that was  _ the opposite _ of what was happening. But before he could, Alexander scowled and turned away, flying out of the tent at full speed

George sank into himself.

Damn him and his pride. And damn  _ Hamilton’s _ pride, the delicate thing.

With his back to the opening of his tent, George fished underneath his desk blindly, fumbling over papers and leather bound books until his fingertips brushed the cool glass of his bottle of whiskey. He pulled it out tentatively, careful not to knock over the materials surrounding it, and popped the top. Rather than drinking from a glass like a gentleman, George tipped the rim to his lips and took a quick sip.

It burned going down. Just as he wanted it to.

Within a few moments, his hand was trembling with the semblance of guilt, of a putrid contrition that painted his insides black, leaving sludge in his veins, a rotting hatred for himself molding him from the inside out. He would not admit it, not freely nor under his loosened tongue from the alcohol, but Alexander mattered  _ dearly _ to him. His aide  _ was _ his son, the son he would never have. Fate seemed to spite him, leaving him childless and tired, desperate for someone to carry on his lineage but unable to birth a child. Fate seemed to cackle at him even as his “son” wandered into his life, running full-tilt, only to despise Washington for the title.

It was for the best, Washington knew, and he would rather Alexander hate him than be dead. He had seen his young aide ill many times, whether with the seasonal malaria that attacked their camp as soon as the heat sweltered beyond unbearable, or with a cold that left his slight frame rattling in pain with every cough, but it felt different this time. George had sent Hamilton on suicide missions before, but he trusted his aide to survive, because Alexander Hamilton was immortal, an invincible menace on horseback, and an unyielding god with the quill. But this left an unsettling silence to fizz throughout George’s body, numbing him. All of his senses screamed at him to spare Hamilton no matter ho fine he appeared, no matter how able-bodied he presented himself.

But perhaps George was too harsh. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but George sat up to apologize nonetheless. His old bones popped in their sockets as he stood full, breathing in deeply and clumsily tucking the whiskey bottle away.

Outside, dusk neared. The camp was bathed in blackness, the campfires and candle lights flickering in the night’s breeze. Distantly, the horizon line burned bloody red, a tinge of purple mixing with the blue sky where stars winked at him. He glanced down the line of tents, to the southern entrance into their encampment, where four soldiers paced along the path.

Four soldiers.

George’s heart dropped.

There were supposed to be  _ two _ .

“You four!” He barreled down the line of tents, soldiers shifting away quickly as he wove between them and their sloppy salutes. “Guardsmen!” The four men stood tight in attention. George stopped before the first one and asked, “What are your orders, soldier?”

“Mister Laurens has ordered me to stand guard, sir.” His eyes flickered with confusion. “I...am a replacement, sir.”

“As am I, sir.” Another man saluted to George.

He turned to the other two. “And you men?”

Their shoulders slouched as they glanced at one another wearily. “Sir, we...well…” The taller of the two danced with his words, licking his lips. “We were ordered by colonel Hamilton, sir--”

“Shit.” George turned sharply and rushed for the stables. He leapt onto his horse, nearly crushing himself against the saddle as he kicked her into attention, throwing her in the direction of the southern guards. He skidded to a stop, shouting, “Which direction?”

Four fingers jabbed in obscure directions. George reared his mare, ready to run wild, until he heard a sharp, “Sir!”

“Laurens!” George whipped around. John approached on his own horse, the giant beast dwarfing Laurens substantially as he approached quickly. He said, “Where are we headed?”

“Southwest.” John said. “I told him not to, sir. I...He is not himself tonight.”

“Never mind that,” George pulled the reigns. “Let us retrieve colonel Hamilton in one piece, yes?”

\--

It had felt like they had been riding for hours, though George knew, logically, it had only been mere minutes since they left camp at their fastest speed. He had already gone numb from the cold, his cheeks fuzzy and fingers swollen with the chill, but he buried the sensations, buried his own discomfort from horseback, buried his own overflowing panic that threatened to bubble over and overthrow his barely-contained fears, instead focusing on the task at hand: Alexander.

“Laurens! Do you spot him?” He shouted over his shoulder, eyes still trained on the expanse of trees ahead.

Behind him, Laurens’ voice whistled over the howling wind. “No, sir!”

To their right, the river gushed, the white rapids a dull hushing in the distance. George wracked his brain, struggling to think of the direction they were running, let alone dictating where  _ Alexander _ could be, abandoned in a forest with a British spy capable of  _ killing _ should he be threatened.

Washington grimaced at the whining wind, the scream of the river, unable to think straight. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

Where would Alexander take the spy? Where--

“The river!” Without hesitation, George turned his horse rightwards. She huffed with frustration, nearly skidding on loose dirt, but soon fell into a steady rhythm as she neared the rushing waters.

John was hot on his trail, shouting ahead, “Sir! Where are we going?”

George said, again, “The river!” But he didn’t focus on making sure John could hear him. Instead, he focused on the waterline, where the angry rapids swallowed thick rocks that stuck upright in the river, where dirt was shoveled back and forth along the line between grass and water, where  _ Alexander _ may be waiting with a possibly subdued spy.

“Alexander!” John’s scream echoed through the forest, swallowed by the river. His desperation reverberated through George’s bones as he called again, “Alexander! Where are you?”

A flash of movement caused George’s horse to jerk. She whinnied, spooked. He flipped around, already ripping his flintlock from his saddle. George aimed into the treeline. The figure ducked, slipping behind a tree. With his free hand, he stopped John and focused his attention forward. With such poor posture, yet such staggering height, there was no possible way that could have been Alexander.

“Halbart! Come out!” George bellowed. Next to him, John stiffened. He dismounted, pulling a gun from his side and began inching forward, carefully stepping over the cracked, crunchy leaves. The water gave him cover. George continued, heart hammering heavily against his ribs, “Where is Hamilton?”

The spy made a run for the forest. George didn’t flinch. His flintlock snapped in his hand. Gunfire popped in the echoing darkness. John’s, too, went off. Halbart flew forward, ripped off his feet, knocked onto his stomach by one of their shots. As George rushed to dismount his mare, John surged forward, jerking the man up by his jacket. “Where’s Alexander!” It was not so much a question as a threat, a growl surging up the young man’s throat as he shook Halbart for an answer. “Tell me! I demand to know!”

Halbart choked. He sputtered, drowning in blood that gurgled up his throat. George approached slowly, pistol at his side, and found himself staring at the hole in the spy’s chest. Halbart opened his mouth to start his mockery, start a  _ game _ , but he was mercifully pulled away before he could, his eyes going grey and grip slackening on himself as he went limp in John’s hold. John gasped, recoiling, dropping the body to the ground with a solid thud.

“He must be here.” George whispered. He whipped around, squinting through the darkness. “Otherwise Halbart would not be here.”

“He might have not found Halbart in time,” John offered weakly. His own voice betrayed his fear, his syllables shaky as he said, “He may still be in camp? Or perhaps he turned around?”

George shook his head. That wasn’t Alexander’s style. “No.” Though how much George desperately wished for John’s presumptions to be true, they both knew Hamilton would follow through until death. “He is here.”

And then George saw it.

A figure. Shadowy, small, slumped against the riverbed, unmoving, unwavering despite the cold, despite the gunshots and the ruckus. Right next to their horses, too, not far from where they stopped. They had  _ missed _ the person sprawled face-down in the dirt, it seemed, and George’s heart swelled fat in his chest when he realized that person  _ was Alexander _ , most likely.

He wobbled at first, unsteady. John cast him a worried glance, “Sir?”

“Get to camp.” George’s voice reverberated through his skull. He swallowed, and it deafened him. “Tell them to prepare the medical tent.”

John stepped forward, then strangled a gasp. He must have seen it, for he mumbled, “Alexander?”

“Go!” George whipped around. He stared John down into action, and the man nodded jerkily, rushing for his horse. He swung both legs up and threw the beast back towards camp, leaving Washington alone with Halbart’s body, and possibly  _ Hamilton’s  _ body. Gingerly, he staggered closer to the form on the ground. He passed by his horse, absently patting her neck, before he found himself floating next to Alexander, his tiny aide, on his stomach, cheek squished into the river water, stray strands of hair flowing with the current.

  
George dropped heavily to his knees. “Alexander.” He reached out, wincing as he eased Alexander over onto his back. The young man flopped bonelessly, unmoving, unresponsive. His face was soaked with water, cheeks hollowed out, lips tinged blue.

George couldn’t swallow properly. He choked on his own spit. “Alexander?”

He pressed his numb fingers to Alexander’s chest, waiting for a steady rise and fall.

Nothing.

George’s fingers calmly flitted up to his aide’s neck, pressing at the pulse point.

Nothing.

George’s own heart flip-flopped in his throat. He quickly peeled open one of Alexander’s eyes.

A glassy, dark iris met his, unfocused, staring beyond George, beyond  _ this world _ and the realization smacked George in the face, jolting his brain to cooperation. 

Alexander wasn’t  _ breathing _ .

He was  _ dead _ .

“Damnit!” George jerked back. His fumbling fingers flew into the air as he fought to think, to think  _ coherently _ and just do something. Without hesitation, he did the first thing that sprang to his foggy mind; he bent over and, sucking in a deep breath on the way down, he sealed his lips over Alexander’s.

He had seen it where he had grown up once, a long, long time ago. A young girl had fell in the well near her house on accident, playing with her brother and becoming too rowdy. She had tripped and fell backwards, cracking her skull on the way down. After bringing her body back up, her desperate and grief-ridden brother had shakily pushed his mouth to hers, pinching her nose, and breathed for her. He breathed, and breathed, and breathed until he was lightheaded and sobbing and crying out her name, begging God to bring her back.

The girl hadn’t lived.

But George couldn’t think of anything else.

He pinched off Alexander’s nose and breathed into his mouth, squeezing his eyes tight to try and stave off the hot tears stinging his cheeks. When he jerked back, he half expected Alexander to bolt awake, laughing. George’s stomach wrenched painfully at the absence of such a sight, his aide instead sprawled before him.

George inhaled sharply and dove back down. He pulled away after a beat. “Damnit, Hamilton!” Taking in yet another breath, he forced the air in, struggling not to let any out, and broke away coughing up tears and more slurring swears. “ _ God damnit, _ Hamilton, wake up!”

Washington was just like the brother at the well.

Alexander was the brother’s dear sister, drowned, dead, cold and lifeless because of a stupid decision on his part. If only the brother had watched his sister closer.

If only George had handled the situation better than he had.

“God, no.” He mumbled between breaths. His head prickled with dizziness. He ripped away, gasping. “God, no. _God_ _damnit._” Black spots sparked in the corners of his vision. “God, no, God--_Alexander, _wake up!” In a fit of blind rage, at that _damned _God who took that boy’s sister, who took _Alexander_ at barely twenty-years-old, George threw his fists to Alexander’s chest. He pushed hard, shaking, weak from grief, pushing until he felt a solid snap and he reeled back.

Alexander jerked.

George stiffened.

Alexander’s body twisted as he spit up water, gurgling and wet and George hurried to roll his aide onto his side as Alexander choked up more river water and watery bile. George held his hand under Alexander’s heavy head, the man’s black hair tangling around his fingers as Alexander wheezed past his still blue lips, his slight frame wracked with guttural coughs, raw and scratchy.

“Hamilton, breathe.” George leaned in close. He cupped the back of Alexander’s neck tightly. “Deep breaths, son. That’s it.”

Alexander broke into another round of coughing. He gasped brokenly, flailing momentarily, before stilling in George's hold once more.

George hushed him. “Easy.” He clung to his aide, head dropping down to the young man’s shoulder as he finally let relief wash over him in thick waves, smoothing the stress lines in his face. “Just breathe. I have you.”

He felt Alexander nod weakly against him, and George gathered him closer, bundling him tight against his chest as he began to rattle from the cold. He could feel Alexander’s heart racing, thrumming against his now broken ribs frantically, as if running to catch what had just been lost. The sensation, however wild, was unbelievably calming, and George found himself clearing in the head, thinking, no longer struggling to piece together what needed to be done.

It was well past dusk. If the British had not come yet, George hoped that they would not come at all. Indeed, Halbart was their ace card, and without their ace, their deck was incomplete. George doubted they would play a game.

Alexander began to shake in his arms, trembling, teeth chattering as he burrowed himself closer to George’s body heat. Numbly, Alexander rasped, “Wha’ppened?”

“Halbart.” George murmured. “Can you stand?” He needed to get them back to camp, needed to get Alexander to medical before Laurens sent the entire battalion out to find them.

Alexander hummed. “Halbart...?”

“Dead.” George helped Alexander to his feet. It didn’t last for long, as his knees buckled and he dropped fast. George hooked his elbows underneath Alexander’s arms and guided him to the horse. With slow, steady movements, and careful placement, Alexander hauled himself onto the mare’s back. George settled in behind him, taking the reigns from where they fell near Alexander’s knees, and spurred the horse forward.

Once in a steady rhythm, George laced one arm over Alexander’s shoulders, holding him fast but avoiding his ribs should the damage be worse than he thought. Alexander eased back against him, blinking sluggishly. Over the screaming wind, George barely heard, “I apologize…”

“Save your strength.” George bit out.

Alexander continued regardless, “I went against your orders, your excellency. Halbart could have escaped.”

“He is dead.” George said.

“But he could have.” Alexander rebutted. He continued, voice weaker, softer, “I apologize for betraying your trust.”

George snorted. “You have done this many a time, son. Tis but another day with you as my right hand man. I only wish in the future that you trust me as I trust you.”

Alexander’s head lolled to the side, chin resting against his own shoulder. George felt Alexander’s breathing steady out, less pained, more natural, and he resigned himself to Alexander’s sleeping state. His thumb brushed over Alexander’s shoulder, his own heart a steady, solid beat in his chest as he rushed for camp.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, yeah, way behind. Sorry. That's just how the cookie crumbles when you have project after project after play after whatever-the-fuck else I have to write.
> 
> Thank you for being so patient and so supportive!
> 
> Oh! And ignore all historical inaccuracies here regarding CPR and shit. Like, I know the first things for mouth-to-mouth happened around the late 1700s (I think?) but, chest compressions weren't even thought of until, like 1850s, and CPR wasn't even put into practice until the 1950s. So...just let it happen. It's chill lmao. It's all fiction, we good.


End file.
